by D B Nielsen
‘–so you see, that’s why it isn’t real,’ he concluded.
‘But the distances in between are marked,’ I asked, confused. ‘If it isn’t meant to be real then why did they do that?’
‘No idea.’ He laughed then, the sound deep and melodic like tolling bells. ‘Look, the text is far from complete. We assume that there were originally eight regions. The text describes these regions and it seems that strange and mythical beasts as well as great heroes lived there.’
‘But why assume they’re mythical?’ I argued, playing devil’s advocate. ‘Okay, I admit lions and bulls with eagle’s wings seem unbelievable, but dragons are seen as mythical and yet they might be loose representations of crocodiles and alligators or the Komodo dragons that are real. So these historians might be wrong.’
By now he was laughing in earnest. ‘Okay, okay, I give up. I can only tell you what we have tried to piece together from the evidence.’
I paused, arrested by what he’d just said to me, ‘I’m sorry, forgive me for being rude, but who exactly is “we”?’
‘I’m referring to your father, Professor Woods, and the other archaeologists who have studied and published on ancient Mesopotamia,’ he patiently explained, arching a golden eyebrow. ‘Your father is Professor Woods, isn’t he?’
I was astonished, my eyes widening in surprise. ‘Yes, how did you know?’
‘He’s a colleague of mine, didn’t you know? I thought I recognized you from a photo of your family he keeps on his desk,’ he admitted, looking slightly embarrassed at becoming so personal.
‘Oh! I didn’t know!’ My tone was apologetic as I had no previous notion of who he was.
‘Sorry, now I’m the one being rude. Of course, you don’t know who I am,’ he held out his hand for me to take, introducing himself, ‘Elijah St. John Rivers – but please call me St. John, I much prefer it. I work for the museum as its Assistant Keeper, Ancient Mesopotamian Culture.’
He pointed this out without pride but as if it were a simple statement of fact. I was even more surprised. Dad’s colleagues were mostly dry middle-aged academics with a list of letters signifying the degrees they’d earned following their names and a number of published essays, books and journals they’d contributed to that lined the shelves of their offices. It would have been an exaggeration to say that they were all crusty old scholars but many of them did have a tendency to take themselves a little too seriously and none of them looked like Lara Croft, Tomb Raider, or the man standing in front of me. St. John Rivers just seemed too young to hold such a position, it didn’t seem possible.
Even so, I reached out to shake his proffered hand yet, at first contact, I pulled back startled, as an extraordinary voltage passed between us. He laughed, apparently unaffected.
‘Static electricity,’ he said.
‘Sorry,’ I mumbled an apology as if it were my fault, slowly reaching out again. My fingers were still slightly cool but they felt like they’d been scorched by the brief contact, tingling as if I’d touched a live wire. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, just surprising. A charge flowed through me as his hand met mine and I felt myself blushing wildly.
As if he read my thoughts, he said, ‘“If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this; my lips two blushing pilgrims ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”’
His voice was just a soft murmur. If it was possible to blush even more wildly, I did then.
‘You like Shakespeare?’ I asked shakily, releasing my breath.
Again that deep, melodic laugh.
‘Oh, I think everyone knows Romeo and Juliet,’ he replied, his green eyes reflecting his amusement.
I didn’t want to contradict him but I could have said that there must have been millions of people in the world who didn’t know Romeo and Juliet and many more who didn’t know the play well enough to quote from it.
Instead, I countered, ‘That’s not what I asked. I asked you if you like Shakespeare.’
‘Well, of course. Don’t you?’ He was suddenly intent, his eyes searching mine.
I could have sworn he was playing games with me, almost as if he knew what I was thinking. Maybe my bookish nature was more obvious than I thought if a complete stranger could tell I liked Shakespeare well enough to know obscure quotations from scenes that didn’t include a balcony.
‘Yes, I do,’ I replied a little tartly, ‘but not many guys I know are interested in literature.’
His gaze became appraising. ‘Maybe you need to broaden your social circle a little.’
I became slightly flustered. Was he flirting with me? He couldn’t be!
Then, as if to confirm my thoughts, he murmured intently, a wicked glint in his eyes, ‘But you didn’t answer my question.’
‘I wasn’t aware that you’d asked one,’ I replied, confused.
He shifted his stance and it was as if he were now leaning forward towards me ever so slightly but, in fact, he hadn’t moved any closer. ‘Should I smooth that rough touch?’
Was he talking about kissing me? Right here and now? I thought wildly, my heart beating an erratic tattoo. I was mesmerized by the look in his jade green eyes and felt myself suck in a shallow, shaky breath.
‘Dr Rivers?’ A museum attendant hurried up to St. John, unaware of the simmering tension flowing between us. ‘Your school group is waiting for you to show them the Cyrus Cylinder.’
He turned away from me to address the mousy young woman hovering nearby. ‘I’ll be there in a moment.’
So, I thought in amazement, he really is the Assistant Keeper!
I looked over the attendant’s shoulder and recognized the two boys, Joshua and Charles from before, a little more subdued but still covertly poking each other in the ribs when the teacher wasn’t looking, preoccupied with the rest of her students.
The tension was suddenly broken and I laughed.
‘You’ll have your hands full with that lot,’ I commented, flashing St. John a smile.
He turned to look at the skittish group too but didn’t comment, merely suppressing an amused smile. Instead, turning back to me, he said in a soft whisper, not expecting a response, ‘Pity. And just when it was getting interesting. I’ll be waiting for your answer, fair Juliet. Till next time.’
It was a promise. Or a threat. I didn’t know which. Once again, it threw me into confusion and I felt flustered and embarrassed.
He broke away from me then and moved towards the school group. He knew that I was staring after his retreating back, my face as red as it had never been in my life. I wanted to pretend a sangfroid I didn’t feel, so I turned back to the display case and the tablet of Mesopotamia that lay within, but my scattered thoughts were awhirl. And as for my emotions – well, I didn’t even want to go there.
The whole world had turned on its axis today.
It might have been minutes or hours later when I finally gathered myself together, not that I would have known in my preoccupied state, before I made my way back to Security to drop off the Visitor’s Pass. I decided to forgo the effort of visiting my Dad again, willing to risk the humiliation awaiting me. With minutes to spare, I met Mum and Fi at the entrance of Great Russell Street.
I was silent all through the journey back home, lost in my own thoughts. Mum and Fi barely noticed – I wasn’t the loquacious one in the family. Fi chattered happily about things inconsequential, keeping up a steady stream.
The windscreen wipers swished back and forth and the BMW’s headlights flashed upon swatches of undefined colourless countryside. Safely ensconced inside the car’s warm interior, I gave myself over to the vague undulations of my thoughts in the darkness. And for the first time since arriving in London, I felt a nervous thrill at what awaited me tomorrow.
PUNISHMENT
CHAPTER THREE
Unfortunately, the next day found me grounded.
Dad’s anger at my lack of sound judgement was wholly expected. What was not expected was th
e punishment I incurred. It was hardly fair – I wasn’t the one who left the papers on the kitchen counter accidentally. Okay, so I caused him some embarrassment in front of his colleagues. And, admittedly, I saw something I wasn’t supposed to see. But it was totally unintentional; I didn’t mean to cause any harm. Though that’s not how Dad saw it.
Dad’s angry bark as soon as he entered the front door, ‘SAGE! Get down here this minute!’ had everyone in the house jumping to attention.
I’d hoped to waylay him in the driveway but got distracted by searching the net for information about Elijah St. John Rivers, the artefact and ancient Mesopotamia in that order.
As soon as I was home, I’d made a mad dash up to my room, turned on my old laptop – which I was using until my Apple Mac arrived on the shipping freighter – and, while it was booting up, ran down to the kitchen for a Coke and a piece of fruit as my stomach was grumbling because I’d skipped lunch.
My Google search on St. John turned up 219 million sites, most of them dedicated to the character in the Bronte novel or waterways in North America bearing the same name. I found that only the scantiest information existed about him. Of course, there was the staff information of the British Museum – a profile consisting of approximately ten lines, the majority of which detailed his position and current projects at the museum and only briefly described his interests, and those only in history and archaeology. Not much there I didn’t already know or couldn’t guess. There was absolutely no personal history on the website – not even his age or academic background. I didn’t expect to find the kind of details one might on a site for singles looking for their perfect match, but I couldn’t find anything useful whatsoever. No Facebook page. No Twitter account. No social media site. It was as if Elijah St. John Rivers had no history at all – like he didn’t exist – which, of course, was really dumb because he did exist. I’d met the guy, for goodness sake!
My search on the artefact also was luckless. In fact, I ended up with even less hits than for St. John! Mostly, there was general information on Babylonian ziggurats and cuneiform script. I gave up in frustration as Dad’s study was better stocked and no doubt held more accurate information. The only search that yielded results was on ancient Mesopotamia and that brought me full circle right back to the British Museum. So in my fruitless searching for non-existent information I didn’t hear Dad’s car pulling into the driveway.
I allowed a few heartbeats to pass before going downstairs to face the music. It was obvious to everyone that Dad had long reached boiling point and continued to simmer still. The walls fairly crackled with it. I’m sure the traffic out of London in peak hour traffic had done nothing to improve his rapidly escalating mood so, by the time he’d finally arrived home, I was really in trouble.
I paused in the hallway beside a gilt-framed mirror, prolonging the inevitable. The face in the mirror eyed me steadily back but had no alternative to offer.
‘SAGE! GET IN HERE, NOW!’ Dad’s voice, loaded with anger, boomed from inside the study. I took one more look at the girl in the mirror whose pale reflection stared back with certain trepidation in her eyes, admonishing myself for these dubious delaying tactics, and pushed the study door open.
The study was the one room in the house that we didn’t need to renovate. Dad had his entire library – the books and all the furniture – expressly shipped from Australia so it would be here when we arrived. The room’s proportions always managed to surprise me – the effect was one of light, air and space, even on the darkest days. It was a high room, the ceilings patterned in a grape and vine design, the decorative plasterwork matched by two ceiling roses which sprouted brass and Waterford crystal ceiling lights – a fancy of a prior owner. On one side of the room, the six arched windows reached from just above the skirting board to almost touch the ceiling cornices, at their base window seats had been installed. The two central windows faced a limestone fireplace whilst above it, and facing the other windows, were large gilt-framed mirrors, positioned to reflect the view of the gardens. A mahogany Partners desk was placed at the furthest end of the room while, surrounding the fireplace, was a burgundy leather chesterfield, rosewood side tables adorned with amber shaded lamps, and two high-backed antique French Provincial chairs. The polished floorboards were covered with an Audubon russet braided rug, held down at the corners by brass grommets. The bookshelves in carved rosewood, chosen for its warm hues, extended around the room, filled with a great number of rare and valuable volumes of literature as well as atlases, dictionaries and academic texts.
This evening, the room was radiating warmth from the fire which had been lit earlier in anticipation of Dad’s arrival home; the scent of beeswax polish and potpourri lingering sweetly behind the hickory and apple firewood burning in the grate.
‘Sage. Come in, please, and close the door behind you,’ my father’s voice was weary with exhaustion, yet a trace of banked anger was still present.
As I shut the door, I automatically leapt to my defence, ‘Dad, please let me explain, I didn’t mean to–’
‘Sage, enough!’ he barked, facing me from across the desk where he was seated, ‘Your mother and I have been very patient with you lately. We understand that you’re disappointed at how things have turned out – but enough’s enough. Your attitude has left a lot to be desired and today’s behaviour is beyond the pale.’
I flushed with embarrassment, acknowledging the truth of his words.
‘I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, young lady. You’ve always been the responsible one. We’ve always counted on you to set an example for your brother and sisters. I don’t think we’ve been too demanding, have we?’
I shook my head staring down at the carpet, following the pattern of avian and floral images. Letting my hair fall forward to create a shield, I pretended I was anywhere other than here. It wasn’t really fair – after all, Saffron was merely twenty-eight minutes younger than me but I was expected to be the more responsible one. I didn’t mind so much with Jasmine and Alexander; there was a large gap between us as Mum had given birth to Jasmine almost ten years after us twins. But I pursed my lips together and didn’t bother to contradict Dad as it would only have made my case worse.
‘Then what was that performance today?’ he asked, exasperated. He ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, removing his steel-rimmed glasses to give them a methodical wipe – a gesture that expressed his weariness. His face wore a defeated expression.
‘I was bringing you your papers like Mum asked.’
His eyes, almost black, bore into me, ‘Sage, you could have left them with Sylvia. You know that.’
‘Yes, but I was going to ask you if you were free for lunch and Sylvia–’ I began, my voice rising in protest only to once again be cut off.
‘Sylvia would have told you I was busy. All day.’ He looked sternly at me, my fidgeting confirming the truth of his statement. ‘What possessed you, Sage? What in the world were you thinking to burst into my office unannounced?’
I assumed they were rhetorical questions and therefore didn’t answer. I could hardly say that Sylvia had ticked me off – that would have looked even worse. So childish.
I kept my head down and glanced up at him under my lashes. He was facing towards the window, looking out at the rain-drenched inky darkness. I lifted my head a little.
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ground you, Sage.’ He gave a long-suffering sigh, turning back to face me. His face was a mask of sorrow, as if I’d made him do something he didn’t want to do, as if I’d brought this on myself and he didn’t have an alternative.
It was then that I began protesting in earnest, ‘But, Dad! It’s not fair! I–’
‘One week,’ he continued as if he hadn’t heard me.
‘A week?’ I shrieked in horror. What was I going to do now?
I wanted to return to the museum, I needed to return to the museum, but now my plans were dashed in one fatal blow by my father.
‘
A week,’ he confirmed with a depressing finality, his voice deep with filial authority. ‘Now go to your room.’
My mind was a blank as I tried to think of a way to make him understand. I felt moisture filling up my eyes, self-pity and frustration mounting.
‘Dad, please!’ I begged, the thought of spending a week alone at the Manor House while Fi and the others had the freedom to do what they wanted made the tears spill over.
And then he said it, ‘Sage, it’s for your own good.’
Ugh! I almost screamed! I hated that argument! Why did parents use it? What possible good would come of me being grounded for a week? How could you argue with someone who believed that the punishment they’d meted out was for your own good? The tears flowed faster.
I stumbled towards the door, feeling bruised.
‘And Sage?’ he called after me, ‘It would be best if you forgot what you saw today. If you hadn’t ignored Sylvia, I wouldn’t be needing to tell you this now.’
I heard what he was trying to tell me; this was my own fault. I’d brought this on my own head. If I hadn’t ignored Sylvia, I wouldn’t have seen the artefact and I wouldn’t be grounded now. It was so unfair.
I walked up the stairs slowly, a heavy stupor clouding my mind. From behind the banister on the top floor landing, Jasmine and Alex snickered conspiratorially, enjoying my discomfort. I’m sure they thought it was nice to know that their eldest sister was capable of stuffing up too.
Fi came out of her bedroom, situated next to mine, stopping me before I had an opportunity to escape. Her face, almost a mirror of my own, was drawn in concern.
‘Sage? What happened?’ she asked quietly, trying to avoid the sharp ears of our siblings.
‘I’m grounded,’ I sniffed, my voice so low she strained, moving closer, to hear me.
‘Grounded?’ Her eyes were wide with disbelief.
Angry tears rolled down my cheeks. ‘For a week!’
Fi grabbed my arm tightly and propelled me into my room, closing the door on prying eyes and ears. ‘Sage! What did you do?’
